Flotsam

The China Coast's a dumping ground         And the South Sea gets its share     Of the kind of men that don't make good     The kind of man that never could         The men that never care.     A worthless, careless drinking lot         Combed out from between the Poles.     It's gin, and cards, a woman's breath,     Laughter and love and sudden death         And the Devil gets their souls.     It's a throwback to a weaker strain         That's washed by the Tropic tide.     And a mixture of Dago and Japanese     Latin and Jew and Portugese         Crops out thru a sun-tanned hide.     But the Northland gets a sterner breed         To fuse in its harder mould.     It's the breed of men that don't know fail;     That's the breed of men that hit the trail         For the fabled land of gold.     They're a sturdy, fearless, fighting lot         And they play the game to win.     They fall for women, wine, the game     And win or lose, they smile the same         And to quit is their only sin.     Here the Norsman bunks with the canny Scot         And the lad from the Emerald Isle     Works side by side with Russ and Dane,     North-bred men of brawn and brain,         Men that are worth your while.     So me for the land of the Midnight Sun         With the north lights in the sky,     Me for the land that mothers this race     Where you have to fight to hold your place,         Where you can't quit till you die.